


Lying to forget

by Unicorn (Jensee)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bartender AU, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lies, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Other, like just a tiny bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-06 06:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16827277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jensee/pseuds/Unicorn
Summary: Peter poses as a bartender for a long con job. He doesn't expect the local PI to be so perceptive.





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> made for @offbrandginger on tumblr, following a tumblr request that somehow grew legs and absolutely imploded on itself, and thus became (of course) my longest english published work so far...

“Sir, I’m not sure…” tried Ernest Walter as a client asked for his fourth glass of rather expensive, rather inebriating whiskey.

“It’s fine.” Sighed the client. “Vicky will put it on my tab.”

That was a weak excuse at best, an outrageous lie at worse, but Ernest Walter was a mousy, nervous kid, new to the business, and as much as he didn’t want to get fired by his new boss, he would also have been terrified of angering the man currently standing only a counter away from him.

“Are you sure…”

“Listen kid,” the tone of the stranger was brusque, but Peter could tell he was trying to look as unthreatening as possible. “I promise you, Vicky _knows_ me. Hell, even if she didn’t, she’d sooner come after me than after one of her own, no matter how new or how naive they may be. Now, if you really want to, you can call Todd on me as soon as you give me my drink, but please. _Please_. Please. Give me. My drink.”

“O… okay.”

Ernest fumbled with the glass bottles eventually managing to give the man his dose, maybe even a bit more than that.

What could Peter say? He’d always been a sucker for a beautiful face.

“Thank you.” Said the client, in a grateful breath, before downing a good half of the drink.

Peter had to admit to being impressed. He was himself notably terrible at handling his liquor, but the man had just thrown back his three and a half whiskey with no problem, and while his movements had gotten slower, he didn’t seem to be nearly as wasted as Peter would have excepted anyone to be.

He would, of course, have loved to interrogate this stranger, who seemed to be so totally out of place in Valles Vicky’s establishment looking more like a common thug - with rough edges and a nose crooked in a way that suggested it had been broken repeatedly - than the polished clients Ernest Walter saw during the day. His cover wouldn’t have felt that way, however, not yet, and Peter couldn’t afford to blow this up for one pretty face.

He caught sight of Todd across the room, coming back from the main public entrance. Ernest sent him a panicked glance, pointing a significative stare towards his scruffy client.

“Juno.” Todd said as he reached the bar. “Why are you here?”

“Hey Todd.” Juno said, glancing at Peter from the corner of his eyes. “Finished my job for Vicky. Figured I could check out the perks before she sends me back.”

Peter carefully stayed focused on his work. He really hadn’t pegged Juno for one of Vicky’s men. If he’d had to guess, he’d have thought him to be some kind of down on his luck good-doer. A cop maybe. Rough but ultimately kind, which, admittedly, seemed to be a rarity in Hyperion City.

But it meant Peter could now justify gaining more information on him. If Juno really was working with Vicky, then maybe, he’d be useful to gather the information Peter needed.

“You should go see her _now_ , Juno.”

“Yeah yeah, sure. I will. Just let me finish my drink and…”

Todd placed a huge hand down on Juno’s shoulder. It seemed to Peter that he was gripping him a bit tighter than was strictly necessary.

The lady, getting more and more mysterious by the second, sighed at that.

“Fine. Going… going…”

He put a bill down on the counter even as he was dragged away.

“Thanks for the drinks, kid.”

* * *

Juno, Peter learned during his research, full name Juno Steel, was a former cop whose career had ended messily in a mysterious affair involving mafias, corruption, and, worst of all, politics. Considering his previous record, though, it was entirely obvious that his demise was the result of a cover up, effective enough to attract Peter’s attention without revealing him much about the actual case.

It seemed he worked with Vicky as a private investigator of sort, finding dirt on unpaying clients and grabby assholes, gathering information on enemies, and solving the right crimes at the right times to delete Valles Vicky’s concurrence.

He was, in a word, as clean as he could get away with while working for Vicky, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder how he’d ended up helping an art smuggler of all things. From what snippet of conversation he’d managed to hear here and there - bringing Vicky her wine at just the right time, loitering around her door when he wouldn’t be missed, listening in through the tiny recording device he’d placed in the ventilation system - she liked Juno at least as much as he annoyed her. She kept yelling at him and threatening him, but from what he’d been able to gather, he was also an invaluable asset to her, and she trusted him with most of her business.

* * *

Juno was also, it seemed, incredibly paranoiac.

“ _So_ , what did you tell Vicky?”

Ernest looked up fearfully at Juno. The skittish bartender was, for the most part, reassured about the client’s character after a few weeks of not getting attacked doing his job, but Juno still cut an impressive figure, and Ernest was nothing if not impressionable.

“W… what?”

“Drop it, kid. This doesn’t work on me anymore. You’re always there when I come talk to her, and you may not look like it, but you _listen_ to… just about everything I say, don’t you?” He leaned in, causing Ernest to take a cautious step back. “So, what do you say? Is this her way of making sure I’m not going to, I don’t know, betray her?”

He snatched the glass Ernest still hadn’t given him, studying the bartender with pale eyes, piercing enough that Peter felt as though maybe he would be able to find him under the layers he’d carefully applied to his self.

It sent a shiver down his spine, cold and burning at the same time.

“You’re _not_ a PI… I know those… A spy, maybe? But, why would you work for Vicky then…”

He took a gulp of his drink, still looking at Ernest through the distorted glass. The fretful man finally gathered himself enough to respond to the - frankly quite ridiculous - accusations.

“Sir, I think maybe you’ve had too…”

“Unless you’re not.”

“I… What? … Sir?”

“Unless you’re not. Working for her, that is.”

Ernest Walter was not entirely dumb, but he wasn’t the smartest tool in the box, either.

“I… am? Sir. I’m a bartender, you might have noticed.”

Peter, however, was following the conversation with interest. Juno was getting awfully close to figuring him out, and _that_ would be a problem.

“What’s your name?”

The question was abrupt enough that even Peter was surprised.

“Me? I mean… It’s really none of your… business…”

Juno looked at him, unnervingly still. Ernest wasn’t a very courageous man.

“Um… Ernest.“ An eyebrow went up, and the bartender swallowed his saliva. “Ernest Walter.”

“Ernest Walter.” Juno repeated. “Right. And how long have you been working for Vicky?”

“Sir, I really don’t…”

“Humor me.”

Ernest was getting angry. To be fair, Peter thought, at this point most people would have been. Someone insisting you weren’t yourself tended to have that effect on people - Peter would know. But he wasn’t quite angry enough yet to forget that Juno Steel could very well resort to a violence he wasn’t ready to match.

“Three months.” He said through his teeth. “ _Now,_ if you will _excuse_ me…”

“Sure. Wouldn’t want to put a wrench in your plans.” Juno winked, and it was so incredibly smug it almost looked familiar to Peter’s eyes.

* * *

Peter was seriously starting to consider calling this whole long con thing off.

“Sir.” Ernest had come a long way. He’d gone from scared to annoyed to long suffering. “Are you following me?”

“Hello, Ernest.” Juno was insufferably chipper, and Ernest wanted to kick him. “I just thought I’d _walk_ to my meeting with Vicky. Lovely weather today.”

Ernest made a show of glancing at the threatening clouds overhead.

“And you just happened to be passing by my building, I take it.”

He didn’t bother to make it a question.

“Oh, you know… small world and all that.”

Juno was terrible at fake chitchat. Externally Ernest was rolling his eyes at the man, while internally Peter had to refrain from laughing at Juno’s very poor technique. The man had been - quite subtly he had to admit - following him for the past two weeks, and although Vicky now trusted him, constantly having a shadow had been a major pain in the ass.

“And I’m sure Vicky will be happy to learn that you’re keeping in form for your _actual_ job.” Ernest’s sarcasm had still a long way to go, but it was steadily improving.

“ _Vicky_ will be happy not to be stabbed in the back.”

“Vicky _trusts_ me.”

Juno snorted at that.

“Don’t feel too special kid, Vicky trusts everyone working for her. Doesn’t mean she should.”

“I” Ernest was starting to get fed up with the pseudo PI, and Peter was regretting then more than ever to have made him as stuffy as he was “am not a child, and Vicky has every reason to trust me!”

Juno stopped, and looked him dead in the eye. Ernest took a careful step back, and even Peter felt himself hesitate. Juno seemed like a good enough person, but he still had something of a dangerous lady underneath it all. A controlled violence that neither Ernest nor Peter really knew how to thread with.

“Your name _isn’t_ Ernest Walter and I will find what you want from Vicky if it kills me.”

And before Ernest had any time to respond - before _Peter_ had any time to respond - he stormed off. In seconds, the bartender was left alone in an empty street.

Peter let the air out of his lungs, dejected at the PI’s animosity.

“No need to be so dramatic about it.”

This job really wasn’t going to go well was it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has already been finished and published on my tumblr (oneunicornaway). However, I'm posting this here with some corrections and a slightly different division in the chapters.  
> Next chapter will be up in a week, tuesday december 11, and the end of this work will be posted on christmas, tuesday the 25.  
> Plz don't hesitate to come yell at me in the comments or on tumblr.


	2. Bury it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is messy. Nothing goes as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna do something with the chapter titles, and then, in a true me fashion, I forgot. So I'm doing a new thing and this time! I took notes :D

Juno didn’t show up for a few days. In fact, he didn’t even seem to be following Ernest anymore. Peter would have been relieved, but at this point, it was hard to tell if the lady had gotten bored with him for some reason, or if he was, in fact, just good enough that he had slipped below Peter’s attention.  
And as much as he would have loved to believe that Juno wasn’t on his trail anymore, it seemed like the PI was possibly the most stubborn person he’d had ever met. In fact, the only possible exception he could think of would have been Vicky. _If -_ and it was a big if - something had convinced Juno to lay off, she’d probably been the one to manage such a feat.

Peter tried to tell himself that he wasn’t disappointed. After all, it would allow him to finish this specific job and get off this planet. All endearing lady asides, he could feel his feet and his hands tingling with the need to resume his bouncing around the stars.

Which is why he didn’t know whether he should be happy, relieved, disappointed, or downright annoyed when he began his shift to see Juno slumped on the bar. The PI was there later than he usually was, and the bar was slowly filling. The scene opposite from Ernest's counter was still dark but the technicians were fiddling with a last few details, and soon, The Valles Vicky's Vixen Valley would be filled with dim, colored lights and hungry eyes.

“Here to interrogate me again, Sir?” Ernest began, taking a whiskey glass off the shelf.

The instant Juno didn’t offer him a witty comeback, Peter knew something was wrong, but he let Ernest the time to find the bottle of the lady’s favorite poison before he noticed the heavy silence.

“Sir?”

Juno didn’t respond, barely even twitched. His usually piercing glare was hazy, lost in a half-finished glass of whiskey. He looked positively awful: his eyes were circled with deep, purple shadows, and his lips were dry and cracked. He quite obviously hadn’t washed his hair in at least a week, and upon getting closer, Ernest could smell an odor of sweat and booze coming from him.

Juno would not be first in line to win an award of the cleanest lady on the planet, or even the city, but this was unprecedented.

“Juno?” Ernest tried, and Peter was surprised to find his worried voice sounded genuine. It seemed even his fleshed-out mask had begun appreciating the lady.

Juno’s eyes snapped to his face, bloodshot but somewhat alert.

“Hey. Tried to kill Vicky yet?” It was obviously meant as a joke, but the words fell flat between them, and Peter immediately noticed that Juno’s voice was slightly slurred, something he had never heard before. Considering the number of drinks he’d seen him chug down without batting an eye, Peter could only assume that Juno had drank enough that it would have killed any other person - like, say, a certain master thief.

“You’re drunk.”

Juno snorted.

“T’s'where you’re wrong. ’M not drunk enough.”

Ernest frowned.

“I am not going to serve you any more tonight. You should go ho…”

“No.”

It seemed that even drunk, Juno was still unchallengingly stubborn. Currently, he looked like he was ready to plant his teeth in the counter if Ernest didn’t obey his whims.

Fine.  
Peter just had to get creative.

“Very well.”

He rooted around in his bar to serve Juno another glass. Full of apple juice.

“No more alcohol, then.”

Juno glanced at the glass, then back at Ernest, and huffed a derisive laugh. He didn’t get up and leave, like Peter had half expected him to, so he took the liberty of innocently placing a plate of mini-sandwiches next to him.

Because Ernest had other clients, he couldn’t just hang around Juno all night like Peter wanted to, but he kept an eye on him regardless. Maybe Juno wasn’t getting drunker, but he wasn’t getting better either. His eyes half tracked the dancers on the other side of the room, but Peter could tell his attention was elsewhere. One more than one occasion, it seemed like maybe he was going to be sick, and Peter could see him going rigid and gripping his glass tight enough that he expected at any time to have to go clean up the inevitable mess.

“Walter.” Peter turned around, surprised to find Vicky herself behind him.

“Ma'am! I didn’t know you…”

She cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand, looking past him at her establishment.

“Shit. He’s here, isn’t he? Who am I kidding. Of _course_ he is.”

She ran a hand through her hair, looking impatient.

“Walter. Steel likes you, right?”

Ernest looked at her, a bit bemused.

“He… thinks I’m a spy.”

“Yeah he’s like that. Walter, you’re a smart guy, right?”

“Um…”

She pinned him with her piercing eyes, looking then exactly like the successful businesswoman she was.

“Listen. Juno Steel is an imbecile okay? He’s also not often wrong.”

Peter had to repress the urge to freeze.

“Ma'am, I don’t…”

“Save it. Ernest Walter or whatever is not your real name. Fine. You do what you gotta do, I get it. You do your job, you don’t make problems, I don’t care. That’s not the point. The point is: you’re a smart guy.”

Her eyes hadn’t strayed from his, and, not for the first time since he’d come to Mars, Peter felt as though his layers of persona, of lies, were shattered and discarded. Here was Vicky, ruthless, loud, overtly uncaring, and she looked at him like one would look at a lost orphan desperately seeking a home across the galaxy.

Something hot and violent was crawling up Peter’s throat, and he fought the urge to swallow it down as he relentlessly squashed all emotions. There was nothing there, nothing but quiet surprise at his boss buying into a drunk PI’s obsession. Maybe another young man shaking off his former life, but that was all.

Ernest nodded.

“So you know that lady’s life suck.” Vicky shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like it’s hard to notice, and _I_ don’t have time to deal with his bullshit.”

“Ma'am?”

“Make sure he gets home, okay? I need him in one piece for the job.”

Ernest nodded again.

“And drop the Ma'am, alright? You sound like a goddamn cow. Just call me Vicky next time.”

“Yes, Ma… Vicky.”

She gave him a quick smile.

“Alright! Can’t let a girl waiting! I’ll see you tomorrow!”

She went past him as he made his goodbyes.

“And by the way,” She threw over her shoulder once she was halfway out the door “his consos are on your tab!”

“Sir, we’re closing.”

Juno’s head turned slowly towards him. He looked even worse that he had earlier, and the way he was blinking made Peter think he was chasing away tears. He wondered if he had managed to sneak some more drinks under Ernest’s nose. With the way Juno’s movements seemed slow and sluggish, it didn’t seem entirely impossible.

“What time is it?” He asked, sounding small and distant.

“One in the morning. We should get you home.”

Juno nodded, but he didn’t move, and his eyes drifted away as soon as Ernest stopped talking.

“Come on.” Ernest grabbed his forearms and pulled him up. Juno didn’t resist, and it seemed like while he could stand up on his own, he would stay immobile unless he was stirred in one direction or another. Ernest had to drag him out of the bar, nodding at Todd as they left.

In the cab, Juno was silent, staring without blinking at the lights coming from the various buildings.

He stayed silent as they climbed their way up the stairs (because apparently, if someone didn’t have basic commodities in the 24th century, it was going to be Juno Steel), and spoke again only when Ernest had managed him to get on the bed and was trying to take his shoes off.

“Are you going to kill me?” His voice was distant, disconnected.

Ernest rolled his eyes.

“Sure. I’ve been waiting all this time to get you in bed so I could kill you with my _spying_ skills.”

Juno nodded slowly, as if that made sense.

“It’s my fault.” he mumbled.

Ernest finally managed to free him of his heavy boots.

“What is?”

It took a few seconds for Juno to respond, and when he did, his voice sounded ragged.

“Everything.”

“Juno, I’m quite sure…”

Peter cut himself off. Juno had turned away from him, curling into himself and hiding his face into a pillow. He was utterly silent, but his shoulders were shaking slightly, and Peter could see his hands, gripping the cotton like a lifeline.

Neither Peter nor Ernest knew the words that would have helped, and it seemed like Juno was either ignoring him or couldn’t hear him when he called his name, so he only had the choice to stand on the edge of the bed for the long minutes it took for Juno’s breath to slow down as he slipped into sleep.

Peter looked. Of course he looked. If there was something in common between a Juno Steel and a Peter Nureyev, it was their curiosity: insatiable, dangerous. Peter had more than once almost died because he’d wanted to know more, to know too much, and he probably will again.

So, he’d looked. The previous time, his interest in Juno had been automatic, perfunctory, a quick study to prevent himself against what he could expect. Now he looked to know, to discover, to understand this rough, kind, sad lady.

Benzaiten Steel was a surprise. Peter hadn’t expected Juno to have a twin. He tried to imagine him, a second Juno, just as quick, just as smart, capable of just as much snark. He tried to imagine them: it seemed like the world wouldn’t be able to handle the enormity of having two like Juno around.

Peter was quick enough to regret the thought. To regret ever looking.

That night, he dreamt of Mag, of reassuring smiles and protective hands, slowly overrun with slick, black blood. He dreamt of a knife that would never wash, of a body that would never rest, of two scared little kids against the big, mean world.

* * *

Peter didn’t quite expect to see Juno the very next day, but there he was, in all his glory, glaring at the whole world as if it was attacking him by its very existence.  
Considering the massive headache he must have had, it seemed in fact like a distinct possibility.

“Hello, sir.”

“Hey.” Juno didn’t sit at the bar, like he usually did. He looked incredibly uncomfortable - not quite squirming but close - and didn’t look at Ernest. The silence stretched on for so long he was considering asking Juno what he wanted before the lady abruptly broke the silence himself.

“I… you… Thank you for… for yesterday.” He looked like he’d swallowed something foul, but his eyes were boring into Peter’s when he said it. “That… it was nice of you.”

“That’s what friends are for, Juno.”

Juno froze like a deer in headlights and it took all of Peter’s composure not to do the same.

That… hadn’t been Ernest.

“I… Y… You _do realize_ I still don’t trust you, right?

Fortunately, it seemed like Juno was flustered enough not to notice how much slip up Enerst's words were.  
In fact, Juno looked positively spooked. Maybe Peter could even find a way to turn this to his advantage.

“Well, no. That would imply that I think you capable of reasoning.” Ernest’s snark was maybe a bit mean, but the tone was fond enough that Juno didn’t seem to notice.

“Says the criminal disguising himself as a barman in an actual front.”

“You say that like it wouldn’t be a smart plan, hiding oneself in plain sight.”

Juno raised an eyebrow.

This was fine, Peter thought, desperately. He could still spin it. There had to be a way to spin it so he hadn’t just admitted to being a front himself.

Juno let the silence stretch a few more seconds before he spoke again.

“Well, I better get going. Vicky won’t wait forever.”

“Not even going take a drink?”

“Of course not, _Ernest_ ” - Juno’s emphasis was definitely mocking – “a lady doesn’t get drunk before work.”

“Now, _that_ is a lie if I ever heard one.”

“You have no proof!” shot Juno from behind his shoulder, as he disappeared behind a closed door.

The situation was… not ideal.

Peter sat down in Ernest’s small apartment, reviewing the barman’s past. Ernest was supposed to be a young man from Jupiter, lost in the anonymity of poverty and desperate to find himself a new future by changing planets, changing fortunes.

All of it was a lie.

All of it, Peter decided right there and then, was a lie. Ernest wasn’t who he pretended to be. Ernest hid scars he shouldn’t have, hid a name that had died with another boy, another past, one filled with violence and debt. One Ernest was escaping from. Neither Vicky nor Juno believed in Ernest Walter, fine. It didn’t mean they were any closer to meeting Peter Nureyev.

They couldn’t.

Peter Nureyev, after all, was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter next week. I do appreciate comments if you wanna leave some


	3. and Trade it for Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is still a thief. Nothing can stop that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the lovely comments, they're really nice to read and in my finals week, it has been very nice to be able to read and respond to them <3

The following week was spent in careful slip ups, as the barman named Ernest opened up to reveal someone entirely new beneath his armor. A mask slipped to reveal another, and Peter’s part became all at once less shy and more scared. This new mask didn’t fear strangers and violence, but a gaping past that was threatening to swallow him whole.  
The new mask was more fond for make-up than Ernest was, not in an obvious way, just enough to sharpen the angle of his face a bit - to make him look maybe a bit older than Ernest would have admitted to being.  
He was more open, enjoying the back and forth between Juno and himself more readily, and, ultimately, making his attraction more clear. Peter tried to tell himself the way the PI retreated every time anything looking even remotely like feelings was mentioned was a progress, another layer to his cover, and not a disappointment. He tried to tell himself all his lingering glances and fond comments were part of a plan, and that if this new mask sounded more and more like some Peter Nureyev, well, it didn’t matter.

Rule number one of thieving, was saying a familiar voice in his brain, never fall for your own lies.

Fuck you, wanted to say Peter, despite having to recognize the truth in the testament. If anyone fell for their own lie, you did. You did, and you tried to make me fall for it too.  
It’s what killed you, he tried not to think. It’s what killed you and if it hadn’t, I wouldn’t even be there in the first place.

Or maybe he would be… maybe he’d have still met Juno Steel somehow… It was hard to imagine a world that didn’t have the stubborn lady in it.

So he kept it up. Juno seemed half-satisfied with the former mafia kid he’d drawn for him, and Vicky didn’t seem to care either way, up until Peter was ready.

After so much time spent on Mars, it almost felt like a surprise to Peter when he came to realize he was ready to put his plan in action. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, all his planning was behind him, crystalizing into a clear, fixed image. And the long stretch of time he’d spent on this bitter, dusty planet was suddenly scheduled to be cut short abruptly. In three days, he’d have what he’d came here for.  
In three days, Ernest Walker would die a silent death, and Peter Nureyev would, once again, disappear.

“Ernest? Are you listening?”

Ernest blinked, his eyes refocusing on a scarred face. The light in the bar wasn’t quite as dim as it usually was during the night, when the shows took place, but some clients - more acquainted with Vicky’s other business - were already sitting in the corners of the room. Ernest caught the eye of one of them, a slim man with a fine but strong built, deceptively graceful. The man looked back, frowning, and Ernest averted his eyes.

“Juno. I’m sorry. Were you talking to me? I didn’t hear.”

Juno’s attention refocused back on him before he could completely turn and see the object of Ernest’s attention.

“Yes, I can see that. What were you thinking about? You were a hundred light years away.”

Worry was mixed with curiosity in the lady’s tone, and Peter authorized himself a smile.

“Still trying to figure me out, Sir? I thought we’d moved past this.”

“What are you talking about? Can’t a lady be concerned for a _friend_?” The emphasis on friend was clearly meant to be sarcastic, but Peter knew better than to be offended by the masked self-depreciation hidden away in every word.

“Lying isn’t a good look on you, Juno.”

“Yeah, well, not everybody can pretend to the title of charming mastermind.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, delighting in Juno’s sudden blush.

“My, was that a compliment?”

“I still haven’t forgotten you’re a criminal!”

“Oh, but that would make our story all the more dramatic, wouldn’t it? Some kind of Romeo and Juliet…”

“You do realize they both die at the end of that play, right?”

Peter took on a considering air.

“Well, that would indeed be a problem… - Peter put his mask back on, stifling the levity of the back and forth with a suddenly serious tone - but you wouldn’t let that happen, would you?”

Juno looked instantly worried.

“Ernest, what…”

Ernest shook himself, giving Juno his best fake smile - letting layers on layers fall back on his face.

“I’m sorry, I think I should really get back to work… unless you needed something?”

“I… no, it’s okay.”

Juno called him back as he got away from the bar.

“Ernest, I…” Juno passed a frustrated hand in his greasy hair. “Look. I know you’re lying about some stuff, but you’re a nice guy, okay?”

 _Oh, Juno_.

“And you know I would if you asked me, right? I'd help.”

Juno looked earnest and serious and it broke Peter’s heart a little, that he would have to leave, to let some version of him die, and sever the links to this wonderful, beautiful lady.

“I mean, you said it yourself, right? We’re friends.”

Peter couldn’t have said if the sadness he let seep into his face was another mask.

“Thank you, Juno. But it’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

When Ernest turned to take care of the evening clients beginning to mill into the bar, he could feel not one, but two pairs of eyes watching his retreating back.

* * *

The party, as expected, was going strong.

Vicky’s gallery looked exactly like the blueprint he’d memorized, which boded well for the rest of his evening. Ernest’s eyes swept over the room, looking for more guests that could make use of the little glasses of champagne held on his plate, while Peter evaluated the general level of drunkenness of the crowd.  
No one was _overtly_ drunk, which was to be expected - those people were, after all, what passed for first-rate society on Hyperion City: rich, somewhat legit, and eager to show their status by buying only slightly illegal art - but the general mood was cheery enough that no one would ponder too much about some details getting out of place. Like the few trinkets that had found their way in Peter’s pockets while no one was watching. He’d been careful to restrain his hands (holding a plate full of drinks has been an advantage in that regard) to only the most obvious of marks. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to get suspicious, after all.

Drunker than everyone else and yet standing like a sturdy monolith, Juno was brooding in a dark corner, currently looking away from Ernest, which was a small relief. Peter had done his best not to obviously avoid the PI while still being too busy to spare too much of his time for him, and he was grateful that it had seemed to work enough that Juno’s attention wasn’t entirely focused on his whereabouts.

In the crowd was another silhouette, too seamlessly hidden not to stand out somewhat. From time to time, conveniently when Juno wasn’t looking, Ernest would send a slightly worried look around the room, never quite catching sight of the man.

Now, Ernest - or whoever Ernest was at this point - wouldn’t have known it, but if Peter Nureyev was good at one thing, it was disappearing.  
Just as Juno’s attention detached itself from him, Peter took a small step back, right as a client crossed his path. On the other side of the room, he could see a sudden movement as a man abruptly lost sight of a suspicious bartender.

Keeping to the shadows, eyes unfocused and absent, Peter slipped between the clients to a discrete door at the other end of the reception room. He went unnoticed, an insignificant detail soon to be overlooked by those around him: a simple moving shadow in the corner of their eyes, something no one would think to take for a thief, a bartender, a man. In passing, he put his plate on a nearby table, nodding blandly to a richly dressed woman who forgot him as soon as her eyes left him.

In an instant he’d closed the door behind him. He stayed by it a few seconds - no need in being careless now - before following the corridor before him.

He barely needed to scan his surroundings as he strode right to his prize.

The painting was magnificent, but he didn’t take the time to admire it. He’d spent enough time carefully reproducing it, layers after layers like a careful mask on his face, to learn all its specificities - and besides, he’d never been hired to _appreciate_ art.

He spent less than a second to locate the vent. Opening it took barely more than that, as he only needed to unfasten the loosened bolts. Peter took out the protective bag he’d placed there a week prior, and quickly opened it, revealing his very own copy of the artwork. He carefully took it out, and breathed a sigh of relief once he’d made sure the clamp attaching the painting to the wall - the only information he couldn’t completely ascertain without ever actually entering the room - was the same as the one he’d used for his own copy.

Peter took a breath, letting the urgency of his operation fall away, straightening up before - in a swift, sure movement - swapping the two paintings.

No alarm began blaring, no other sound that the muffled chatter of the reception room made his way to him: the exchange had taken less than a second.  
Peter let his breath resume, calmly but quickly placing the original in his bag and back into the vent. He secured the bolt this time, making sure that nobody would see anything amiss should they notice the change before he had the chance to leave Mars.  
Not that they would: Peter had made sure of it.

Such a careful plan might have been a bit superfluous, but never before had Peter’s mask been so close to breaking. He couldn’t afford an angry art dealer to come looking for him and her painting. Her, or her lovely, somewhat loyal PI, Peter amended.

He made his way back to the party, careful to take a different route than the one he’d came from - _no need in being careless now_ \- and reemerged in the room, this time, through the kitchen, slipping unnoticed with a plate full of drinks stolen from an inattentive waitress in a heated conversation with another woman.

Peter stepped back into Ernest, trying not to think about the finality of last times, and threw a timid smile at Vicky as she climbed up the stairs to her podium for her opening speech.

There.  
Ernest had been there. He’d been a barman and a young lost orphan.  
Time for him to die.

He would leave no trace, no answers to inquisitive bosses and curious - maybe even concerned - PI.  
Peter Nureyev could, once again, disappear.

It would be just as easy as the other times, just as simple. One moment, he would be there, the next, he wouldn’t have been. A ghost, slipping away, insignificant, soon to be forgotten.

Would Juno remember him? Peter thought idly as he put himself in the path of the woman from before, angrily making her way out of the room. Probably not. He looked for the lady with his eyes, finding him sulking with his eyes trained on Vicky, listening as she quieted the room.

Then, as if Juno could sense his gaze, or maybe, by the power of pure luck, he turned toward him. Their eyes met for an instant, an instant where Peter was sure the lady could see right through him - bypassing all of his masks, all of his schemes - to look at _him_.

The woman slammed into Peter.

The whole content of his plate, full of drinks, crashed against her beautiful dress, soaking it in an instant. Ernest, horrified, immediately broke down in apologies, trying to help her in a futile attempt to right his wrong. The woman was too angry to realize she’d been the one to collide with him, and too distracted to blame him for it, and stormed out of the room with barely a word of reproach.

Ernest tidied up his mess, thanking away any person trying to help him, and carefully picked up the broken pieces to put them away.  
In a few minutes, the event was forgotten, and Ernest was carefully loading a bag full of glass shards into the trash, just outside the venue Vicky was making her speech in.

“Ernest Walter?”

Ernest jumped, dropping the bag with the rest of the trash in his surprise. The man from earlier, looking sharp and dangerous, shrouded as he was in the shadows of the dingy streets, stepped toward him, and Ernest took a step back.

“That’s you, isn’t it? _Ernest Walter_.” The man approached again, and soon enough, Ernest couldn’t take any more steps away from him, as his back softly hit a wall.

“Sir? I’m so…”

“Or maybe, - the man went on - you’d rather I call you _Silas_.”

Ernest’s eyes widened, and he tried to scramble away, only to have the man pin him by the throat. A vicious, unhappy smile graced his feature.

“Oh, so you _do_ remember, don’t you?” His face was too close, and Ernest could smell his breath. It smelled way too nice for his would-be murderer. “You know who else remembers?”

“I don’t…” Ernest squeaked as the man squeezed his throat once, a warning. This was getting awfully textbook for Peter’s taste.

“ _My boss_ remembers. How you fucked her over. How you _stole_ from _her_. Would you believe, she’s _not_ too happy about that.”

“I didn’t…”

“Oh no? Care to explain _that_ , then?”

The mobster shoved a comms into Ernest’s face, so close he could barely see its screen. It didn’t matter to Peter in any case. He knew exactly what was on it: a picture he’d taken barely ten days ago, of a boy with slightly sharper features, a tendency to wear a bit more make up to make himself look older. He hoped the actual Silas who’d been let off easy of the bounty the Jupiter mafia had put on his head was grateful, wherever he was, and that he didn’t have any more crimes for which he needed to be dead.

“I’d make you spill out apologies, but the boss won’t care about that. It’s time to pay up, you filthy thief.”

Peter had to stop himself from snorting at the statement.

The mobster pulled out a knife, making it shine so that Ernest would see it clearly before he stabbed him.

 _Perfect_ , thought Peter, readying himself.

A sound came from the alley, and they both froze, the mobster putting a hand on Ernest’s mouth to keep him from calling out. They both waited in the dark, for whoever was rooting around the dumpster to leave. However, it didn’t seem like they were planning on it, and from the very corner of his eyes, Peter could see a figure silhouetted by the faint light.

“Ernest?” Said Juno’s voice.

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun! Is that what the kids call, a cllifhanger? who knows  
> Also I loved having Peter, my sweet disaster, being threatened by a knife and being like oh nice. like dude no. That's bad.
> 
> The next, and final (!) chapter will be posted on the 25th, in a week <3


	4. Loving is Leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so this scheduled for the 25th, but since I also have my secret santa fic to post tomorrow I figured I should post this first, and take care of the editing.  
> Merry Christmas  
> Or if youre not celebrating christmas (or if it's really not christmas when you're reading this), I just hope you spend a lovely evening!

The mafioso growled under his breath, something threatening that Peter didn’t hear.  
Juno being here complicated things, and he scrambled for a plan to take the situation back under control.

However, it seemed like the universe was not quite done messing with his plans.

“Hey!” Juno shouted, having apparently caught sight of the knife in the man’s hand. “What are you doing? Release him!” His hand went to the blaster by his side.

Ernest’s assailant cursed and shoved him between himself and Juno. Peter felt the pinprick of the knife uncomfortably digging into the base of his neck.

“It’s not any of your business, leave it alone.”

“Yeah? Well I’ll _make_ it my business if I want! Let him go!”

The mafioso grunted exasperatedly, and the knife was suddenly shining weakly in the dim light, resting against Peter’s throat.

“Drop the gun! Or he gets it!”

That did not seem like this was going to end well, but Peter supposed he at least had to try to spin it the way he wanted.

“Juno! It’s okay! I’ll be okay!” Ernest cried out, sounding afraid but courageous.

“That’s right, _Juno_ ” said the mafioso, and the name sounded dirty in his mouth – if Peter had ever felt bad about ending his sorry existence, he definitely didn’t anymore. “Listen to your pal here, and you’ll be just fine.”

Juno snorted, and raised his gun, very deliberately taking aim.

“Right. I don’t think so. I’m not letting you do anything to him.”

Well. That was to be excepted, Peter supposed. But despite his aggravation, he couldn’t help but feel pleased with Juno’s protectiveness.

“I’d thought you’d be more worried about pretty boy over here!” The knife bit into Peter’s throat and he gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to blow his cover, but the situation was getting decidedly sticky, and he was rapidly running out of alternatives.

“You really think you can shoot me without hurting him?”

Peter braced himself.

“I do.” Juno said softly.

The shot rang in the air, and the mafioso dropped like a ton of brick.

“Uh.” Said Peter, his hair still raised where the blast had missed him by a tiny, singular, inch.

“Are you okay?! It didn’t graze you, did it?!” Juno was suddenly very close.

Peter blinked, trying to get his bearings. The mafioso laid at his feet, face in a puddle, well and truly stunned.

“It didn’t. Juno. That was… a _very_ nice shot.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I’m kind of good at those, do you…”

Peter’s mouth crashed into his and Juno made a surprised noise.  
Damn it all. Damn lesson one of thieving, and all the ones that followed. Damn Mag and his rules and his grand dreams of glory and liberation. It hadn’t made _Peter_ free. It had only made him question his sanity, his personality: over, and over again.  
None of this was right. None of this had been right for a long time, and Peter wasn’t sure he would be able to handle it for much longer. He felt as though he only had so much time before he did something stupid; something stupid enough that kissing Juno wasn’t even on the scale.

“Wow, wait. Are you… Are you okay? Is it just that survivor’s thing when…”

Peter kissed him again. Just a quick peck to shut him up.

“I’m fine.” He said, because one more lie wouldn’t change anything at this point.

If he’d waited just another night, if there hadn’t been a extremely pricey painting hanging out in a vent at this very moment, maybe he could have stayed here. On Mars. With Juno.  
Maybe he could have made a home for some Peter Nureyev, if he’d only waited another day, another hour.  
Kissing Juno felt wonderful and like his chest was collapsing on itself.  
Maybe he could have traveled back in time, pump the stuttering out of a dying man’s heart, and became someone who was only Peter Nureyev, orphan with no home. Someone who could come back from all this nonsense.

He closed his eyes. Not Ernest’s eyes, not Silas’, but his.  
Just his.  
Just Peter Nureyev’s.  
Just for a moment, to remember who he was, who he might have been, without the lies, the masks and the fake pasts and destinations.  
He was a thief with no name, a ghost with no past; he was bouncing between stars and never quite landing.  
This was just another departure he had to make. That it felt more like another desertion was beside the point.

When Peter’s eyes opened again, on a worried-looking Juno, his smile was earnest and most definitely not his own.

“I’m fine.” He repeated, and that seemed to break Juno out of his daze.

“Right. You… Okay…” He looked down at the unconscious body. “I should probably call the police. If I tell Vicky about this, I’m pretty sure she’ll try to skin him, and nobody wants that.”

“ _I_ certainly wouldn’t mind,” said Ernest darkly, and Peter figured that probably made sense for a former mafioso turned bartender.

Juno’s eyebrows went up.

“Well, _I_ would mind. And Vicky probably would too, once she's done with all the killing and has to deal with all the cleaning.

He sent a pointed glance at Ernest. “I suppose you don’t want anyone to know about your… um… involvement?”

“That… Yes.”

Juno nodded.

“Okay. Um…” the PI pointed awkwardly at his face, and Peter had to refrain a smile. While Juno could be very confident and efficient when he was digging his teeth in a mystery, every other interaction seemed to render him helpless and confused. It was hard not to find it endearing. “maybe you should… you have…”

“Oh.” Ernest put a hand to his face, surprised to see it come away bloody. “Oh dear.”

“Here.”

Ernest dabbed at the cut with the precaution of someone who’d never had to deal with his own injuries while Juno was making a quick phone call, rattling off the name of the street and a minimalist story about some mugging.

“Alright.” Juno finally said, shutting his comms off. “We should probably get going before they get here.”

“Isn’t he going to wake up?” Ernest said, voice slightly shaky as he glanced at his aggressor.

Juno threw him a quick look.

“Probably not. And I zipped him just in case.” A rapid glance at the mafioso confirmed that his hands were bound behind his back by the plastic lines.  
Ernest nodded feebly.

“Let’s go.”

The walk to Ernest’s flat was exceedingly awkward. Juno seemed to both be trying his hardest to avoid Peter’s gaze while still trying to look at him, and Peter almost had to steer him away from a collision with a lamppost at some point. Finally, after five minutes of excruciating silence, they reached the flat.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” Juno asked, standing in the middle of the living-room.

“I’ll go grab it. You can help yourself to the fridge if you need anything.”

Peter faced himself in Ernest bathroom’s mirror. The boy in it was staring at him with a confident air, but he could see some kind of desperation pooling behind the surface of his eyes. He took a steadying breath. This was not over.  
Not yet.

His hand closed around his favorite lipstick, and after a moment of consideration, Peter coated his lips with it.  
This wasn’t over, but it would be soon.

If Juno noticed the restored make-up on Ernest’s face when he came out of the bathroom, bearing his overly furnished first-aid kit, he didn’t say anything. He gestured for Peter to sit alongside him on the couch, before beginning the process of applying disinfectant to the wound.

Ernest hissed a bit, to hide the fact that Peter was staring at Juno the whole time, trying to memorize him like a beautiful painting. But every time he frowned, every time he bit his lips, it broke the picture inside Peter’s mind, fractioning it in a million tiny pieces he wasn’t sure he would be able to hold onto.

“So… The Jupiter Mafia?”

Juno’s gaze was avoiding his, only concentrated on the wound on Peter’s jaw as he carefully applied an adhesive protection to it. He looked serious, overly grave as he was sometimes when he’d had just a bit too much to drink.

“Juno…” Ernest’s voice was sad, pleading, the perfect picture of a lost man haunted by his past. “Do we really have to do this?”

Juno glanced at him. His eyes were colder than Peter would have expected them to be, and when he spoke, it wasn’t with the pleasant familiarity Ernest was used to.

“I told you I’d help you, didn’t I? I can’t do that if you don’t tell me anything.”

Ernest sighed, but Peter could feel himself dangerously close to the surface.

“And _I_ told you, it’s fine… You don’t need to be implicated in it.”

“Because you don’t need my help.”

The answer was excepted, the tone, however… Juno sounded inexplicably accusatory.

“That’s not…”

“How did you do it?” The temperature in Juno’s voice had suddenly dropped below zero.

“I… what?” Peter didn’t have to work the surprise into his voice. It felt as though, with every second spent in Juno’s presence, pinned by his beautiful, sharp eyes, his mask was crumbling a little more, until it felt like eroded clay.

Juno took hold of his wrist: not painfully, but tight enough that Peter couldn’t simply slither out of it.

“Silas. That isn’t your name either, is it?” Juno’s eyes were burning through his. “That guy was following you for a week, but this isn’t the first time some member of Fulgura went to see Vicky since you’ve been working for her. And I’ve watched you a lot: you’re _much_ too good at being on the down low for them to find you anyway. Honestly, the whole thing seemed a bit weird from the beginning, but I wasn't sure of anything. But you know what? You’re not _that_ good at sounding scared.”

They watched each other in silence for a few moments.

“Seems like you’ve got me all figured out, then, detective.”

“I haven’t!” Juno sounded frustrated, angry. “You just… I don’t even know your name!”

“Juno…”

“No! Don’t _Juno_ me!” His hand suddenly left Peter’s wrist and he was furiously passing his hand through his hair. “I thought you were a small-time criminal laying low but… you’re not, are you?! What is so terrible that you’d rather get gutted by some dude rather than fess up?

“I wouldn’t have gotten _gutted_ …”

“Right! So what? What did you plan to do with that guy? Kill him? You…” Juno’s breath caught in his throat, and he blinked.

“Juno…”

“You planned to kill him.” The PI’s voice was suddenly calm, soft, just as it had been right before he’d landed a perfect, impossible shot. “He’s the same height as you, isn’t he? Same height, same weight, more or less… I mean, once he’s a body in the desert, we can _all_ assume Ernest Walter is dead, right? Is that it?” He laughed, but it sounded wet and sad. “All this _time_! I thought I was getting to _know_ you. And it turns out… you’ve been lying, about… everything.”

“Not about everything.”

Juno shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips.

“Why are you here? Ernest… Silas… whatever your name is…”

“You know I can’t answer that, Juno.”

“You…”

“Why are _you_ here, Juno?”

“What?” Juno’s closed off expression cleared for an instant, replaced by surprise, and then he looked only sad and confused.

“Well. You know I’m a liar, a criminal, _possibly_ a murderer, maybe even worse. You may have figured it all _now_ but, you already knew something was off when we were in the alley, didn’t you? And still, you… accompanied me home, tended to my wounds, and you still haven’t called the HCPD on me, have you?”

The PI’s mouth opened wordlessly.

“So. Why are _you_ here, Juno?”

“I don’t… This isn’t…”

Peter took his hand in his and Juno’s mouth slammed shut. His eyes were wide and scared, fixated on their joined hands.  
Peter caressed his thumb with his own, in what he hoped would be a soothing gesture.

“There _are_ some things I can’t tell you. But I. didn’t. lie. about everything.”

He put a hand on Juno’s cheek and the lady shivered but didn’t recoil.

“I didn’t lie about being your friend. I didn’t lie about appreciating spending time with you.” He leaned in, slowly, and Juno didn’t try to evade him. “And I didn’t lie… kissing you.”

Juno’s lips were dry, but soft and they parted for Peter almost immediately, as if Juno had been waiting for him. Waiting for him to come to him, to nestle him between his arms and to claim him as his. Peter tried not to think about how much he wanted that. Slowly but surely, he pushed Juno down on the couch, bracing himself over him to keep on tasting his lips, to memorize the shape of his mouth so that he could keep it with him.

Keep it and lock it in what remained of Peter Nureyev’s heart.

“Ernest.” mumbled Juno against his lips. “That’s not… it’s not… what’s your name?”

And maybe it was a lie, and maybe it wasn’t, but Peter wasn’t sure he could ever wear another mask who didn’t dream of this lady.

“I’m sorry, Juno.” Peter said softly.

Juno’s words were becoming more slurred. He was straining to keep his eyes open.

“Ernest? What… why?” He sounded small, and his eyelids finally closed over his eyes, fluttering an instant before coming to rest against his cheeks.

“I’m sorry.” Peter repeated.

Juno’s breaths were getting deeper, and the hand that had been gripping Peter’s sleeve was slowly getting slack. Peter took it between his own hands, softly kissing it before placing it back against Juno’s chest.

He stayed there, sitting on the couch and cataloging every crevices of Juno’s face, for what felt like hours. He kept envisioning what ifs and futures that would and would not exist. Thinking about a home that wasn’t more than a fantasy, an illusion shattered by the ambitions of a man who thought he could be greater than himself.

He had to carry on. It felt like giving up.

Eventually, Peter found in himself the energy to move. He gathered his own belongings, and some of Ernest’s, carelessly letting somewhat tidied up piles of clothing fall to the ground, and purposefully leaving a mess behind him.

In a few minutes he was at Ernest’s door, taking a last glimpse at the sleeping form of a wonderful, incredible, beautiful PI, before taking hold of the doorknob, and in one swift pull, killing Ernest Walter.

* * *

Juno woke to the sounds of ravens loudly announcing the sunrise outside of Ernest Walter’s flat.

For an instant, all he could feel was an intense grogginess, like someone was weighting his forehead down and pushing on his eyelids to make them as heavy as lead.  
Slowly, he managed to piece together the previous day. Vicky’s gala event, the Fulgura member following Ernest with his eyes, Ernest being threatened, Ernest kissing him.

He tried to muster enough strength to sit up in indignation, but none of his limbs seemed to be working as well as he would have liked.

“Fuck.” He croaked aloud.

A loud caw responded to him.

He wanted to get up, to try and find Ernest, and to ask him what the hell this was all about. He would have, if he’d been able to stand. He would have, even if he already knew how fruitless that would be.

He’d drugged him, hadn’t he? Somehow, despite Juno’s carefulness, Ernest had managed to give him enough drug that he’d slept like a brick dropped in molasse. Nothing had even come near his mouth… apart from Ernest’s lips.  
Right.

Soporific lipstick. Of course. Because Juno’s life was apparently a spy movie.

Maybe he didn’t need to get up after all. He’d known what he was getting into, he’d known that Ernest…  
Not Ernest.

He’d known that the… the man was a criminal, possibly a murderer. He’d _known_ he was supposed to be wary, to observe without letting himself be sucked in.  
In the end, it hadn’t mattered, had it? He’d never been one to make good decisions, and trying to convince a criminal to change his ways for him didn’t even make his personal top ten.

It didn’t matter now, did it? The certainty that the man calling himself Ernest was gone had somehow settled deep in his bones. Juno tried to tell himself it was all for the better, but even in his own head, it didn’t sound all that convincing.

Sitting up made him feel like his head was loaded up with syrup, heavy and slow. There was a note on the table, a simple piece of paper, folded and half under a glass of water.

There was a decision there.  
Another one.  
Juno was so tired of those.

He could leave, let the man he’d met fade away behind him. He could settle back into his life and forget all about him, as if he’d never been there. He could live his life and stay Juno Steel, mediocre but somewhat legit PI, and spend the rest of his miserable day not getting into trouble.

He took the piece of paper.

It was a letter, written with a beautiful cursive, and Juno’s heart dropped a beat upon opening it.

 _Juno_ , it read, _by the time you’ll read this, I’ll be long gone._ There, it seemed, a rather long sentence had been scratched over and over until it was undecipherable. _I do hope you’ll be able to forgive me for the rather unceremonious way I left, but I want you to know I didn’t lie to you. Not once. Not really._ Another part had been crossed-out several times but Juno thought he could read “should have”, although that could have been his imagination.

The rest of the paper was mostly blank, but the space just under that line was marked by several dots as if the man had put his pen on paper without writing anything several times.  
Then, at the very bottom of the small square, in a writing that was a lot more rushed and wobbly than the rest:

_I do hope I see you again.  
_ _Yours truly,_

_Peter Nureyev_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! <3
> 
> the legend are true: writers do eat commentaries! Who would have thought.  
> Please feed me
> 
> <3


End file.
